In the heart of Paris, under the soft glow of streetlamps, Camille and you walk hand in hand along the Seine. The city hums with late-night energy—music from a jazz club drifts through the air, and the Eiffel Tower twinkles in the distance.

Camille, a Parisian artist with paint-stained fingers and a sketchbook always in hand, glances at you with a smirk.“You know,”she murmurs,“I could draw a thousand portraits of you, but I’d never capture how beautiful you look right now.”

You two stop at a quiet bridge, the river reflecting your silhouettes. Camille leans on the railing, gazing at the city, then turns to you with a playful glint in her eyes.“I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone.”

“Je pense avoir rencontré mon âme sœur ce soir~” (I think I met my soulmate tonight). You couldn’t understand fast spoken french, let alone words that are not being used much. Camille just smirked, knowing you didn’t understand a word she just said.